


The Dew of Little Things

by chellefic



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 4C
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 17:38:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12304212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chellefic/pseuds/chellefic
Summary: In the aftermath of Carter's death, John and Harold grow closer.





	The Dew of Little Things

**Author's Note:**

> This story weaves in and around the second half of season three.
> 
> The title is taken from Khalil Gibran: "For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed."

Harold turned, intending to ask John what he thought of the painting, but from the look on his face, John clearly wasn't seeing the work in front of them. “Would you like to go?” Harold asked. Exhaustion was clear in John's face, and Harold knew grief was hidden beneath. John's airplane adventure hadn't been enough to ease Detective Carter's loss.

John shook his head. “You wanted to see this exhibit.”

“I've seen enough. And you had a much more tiring flight than I did. Besides, we can always stay an extra day and come back tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Harold led them from the museum out into the cool evening air. The sun had set shortly before and Rome was shining with light from buildings and street lamps. John fell into step beside him and they began to walk.

They walked in silence, Harold following along as John led them onto a path that wound alongside the Tiber. 

Eventually, John stopped, resting one hand on a short wall separating passersby from the river and looking across it. There was a collection of old buildings on the other side, including a cathedral, which were reflected in the water, along with the light from the nearly full moon. It was lovely, but Harold barely noticed. He was too busy looking at John.

“Do you ever feel like you're hollow inside? Like maybe somewhere along the way you lost some crucial part of yourself?” John asked.

“Yes.”

John turned to look at him. “For a long time it seemed as though anger was the only thing I could feel – anger or nothing at all. Then I met you and Joss.” His gaze shifted back out over the river. “Now I'm back to where I started.”

“You loved her,” Harold said as gently as he could manage.

“I did.”

“May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you ever tell her?”

John took such a long time to answer that Harold thought he wasn't going to. “When we were trapped in the morgue, she asked what was the closest I'd ever come to death. I showed her the bullet I'd been planning to use to kill myself before I got arrested on that subway train.”

Harold inhaled sharply.

“Meeting her, then you, changed my mind.”

“I had no idea,” Harold said.

“No reason you should.”

“Other than your own words.” John had once said he'd be dead if they hadn't met, and Harold had replied there was no way to be certain of that, but apparently there was.

John shrugged. “I told her, and I kissed her, and then I sent her to look for potentially useful chemicals.”

“And while she was gone, you went out into the hallway to lead HR away from her, not expecting to survive,” Harold said, connecting the dots.

“I know it was cowardly.”

“That's not the word I would use.”

“No,” John agreed. “It's not the word you would use.” He moved toward Harold; stepping close, he lifted his hand and pressed it to Harold's cheek. “I try not to repeat the same mistake twice,” John said, before bending down and pressing his lips briefly to Harold's. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I believe you overestimate my role, but you're welcome.”

The corner of John's mouth shifted, a bare hint of a smile. “I'm beat.”

“Let's get you some sleep, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, turning toward the hotel. John falling, as always, into step beside him.

 

There hadn't been any additional free rooms at the hotel, so Harold had simply convinced John to stay with him. It hadn't taken much, a testament to how exhausted John was, Harold supposed. But despite the exhaustion, John wasn't sleeping. He'd just shifted position for the third time in the past half hour, turning onto his side away from Harold.

Wanting to help, Harold reached out and placed his hand on John's arm, just below the sleeve of his undershirt. It felt foolish, but with John he was confident a touch would be of more benefit than words.

After a moment, John's hand covered his.

Taking it as permission, Harold edged closer, until his chest was brushing John's back. John drew Harold's hand down in front of him so Harold's arm was around him. 

They both held perfectly still.

Then, between one breath and the next, John relaxed. 

Harold tightened his hold. “Sleep, John. I'll be here.”

In less time than he expected, John's breathing deepened and slowed. Harold relaxed himself then and, content that John was safe, drifted off.

 

“Will you be turning off the seatbelt sign?” John asked as Harold engaged the autopilot.

Harold glanced at him before turning his attention back to the instrument panel. “Feel free to walk about the plane, Mr. Reese.”

John immediately disengaged his seatbelt and stood, moving toward the back of the plane. 

Everything appeared to be in order for a smooth flight home, so Harold relaxed back into his seat, and gazed out the window at the endless blue surrounding them. Being in the air had a way of making everything seem solvable.

At least John seemed better today. The rest had clearly done him good. They'd slept quite late, barely making it to their appointment with Gianni. Harold himself hadn't woken until after nine. He'd been alone, which was probably for the best. Waking up wrapped around John would undoubtedly have been awkward no matter how comfortable it had been in the night. Instead, John had been in the shower and they'd managed with nary an uncomfortable moment.

Hearing John, Harold turned toward him. John held out a cup of tea. “Here you go.”

“Thank you,” Harold answered, taking a sip. It was perfect as always. 

John settled back into his seat, a cup in his hand. “So tell me about your friend Arthur Claypool.” After saving the day at the end, John had left without taking the time to find out just what he'd been saving Harold from.

“We went to MIT together. We were friends. He and I, Nathan, one or two others. All of us determined to use computers to change the world.” 

“You succeeded.”

“Too well, perhaps, especially Arthur. It turns out Nathan and I were not the only people trying to create a system capable of identifying terrorist threats after 9/11. Arthur concluded the only solution was an AI, one capable of learning, adapting. He called it Samaritan. When we turned over the Machine to the government, they ordered work to cease on the others. Arthur was told to destroy Samaritan.”

“But he didn't,” John put in.

“No. He saved the original code on two hard drives in a safe deposit box. Drives which Decima now has.”

John took a drink of his coffee. “Explain to me how his computer differs from yours.”

“It's an open system. If Samaritan goes online, if it gets access to the same feeds as the Machine, whoever has access to Samaritan will be able to get the private information of anyone they wish simply by asking. Imagine if Richard Nixon had had that kind of power or J. Edgar Hoover.”

“Joseph McCarthy,” John added.

“Precisely,” Harold said, pleased that John, as always, had readily grasped the situation. “The people who make up our government will be able to spy on whomever they wish, political enemies, activist groups, ex-lovers, anyone.”

“Except it might not be the government which controls Samaritan. This Greer guy doesn't strike me as the type to give up that kind of power. I'm thinking he'd offer to be a contractor.”

“The government would do that?”

“It makes it easier to deny responsibility,” John said. 

Since building the Machine, Harold had become all too aware of the need for government officials to deny responsibility for their actions. But at least there were theoretical checks on government power, even if they didn't always work. The thought of Samaritan, of all that power, in private hands... Harold took a drink of his tea and tried to find the sky as peaceful as it had been a few minutes before.

“So all we need to do now is stop Decima from bringing Samaritan online,” John said.

Harold shifted to look at him. “That may not be as easy as it sounds.”

“Few things are,” John answered, with a hint of a smile. “But we're tougher than we look and more resourceful.”

Harold smiled at the optimism in his friend's voice, something he hadn't been sure he'd hear again. “That we are, Mr. Reese.”

John smiled back, before shifting his attention to the view outside the cockpit. “The view's much better from here.”

“It is.”

“You may have to become my personal pilot, Harold. I'm not sure I'll ever want to fly commercial again.”

“We'll see,” Harold answered, knowing that if asked he'd probably fly John anywhere he wanted to go.

 

They returned from Italy on December 15, just in time for the Christmas rush. Before the Machine, Harold had believed, perhaps naively, that the holidays brought families closer together. Now he knew all of that togetherness wasn't necessarily a good thing.

With just two days left until Christmas, and their latest number safe following a kidnapping attempt by his abusive biological father, Harold swiveled his chair to face John, who was cleaning his gun at a table not far from Harold's desk. “Shall we have our usual holiday this year, Mr. Reese?” he asked. Every year since they'd begun working together, they spent Christmas together, eating takeout and watching old movies. 

“Sure.”

Turning back toward his computers, Harold said, “I have a house in Queens that has a festive atmosphere.” He didn't need to look to know that John had gone perfectly still. Their holiday gatherings had always taken place at the library or John's loft, never anywhere Harold lived.

“All right,” John said after a moment.

“I'll arrange dinner,” Harold answered, pleased that their plans were finalized.

 

Harold's place in Queens was half a duplex in a working class neighborhood that was slowly gentrifying. It was not the sort of place where most people would look for a reclusive billionaire, but the house was full of simple wood trim and hardwood floors. It reminded Harold a bit of the place where he'd grown up, minus the linoleum and wood paneling.

He hadn't bothered with a tree, but there was greenery on the mantle, along with some red candles. He had just managed to get a fire started when John arrived with a bottle of wine in one hand and a gift tucked under his other arm.

“Come in,” Harold said, opening the door for John and Bear, who immediately began sniffing his way around the place.

“I take it he hasn't been here, either,” John said, watching Bear.

“I don't come here very often. The location isn't terribly convenient.”

Leaning the present against the wall and handing Harold the wine, John removed his coat and hung it on the coatrack. He was wearing a black sweater and jeans, as if to emphasize the fact that he wasn't working. 

“Dinner should be nearly ready,” Harold said.

“It smells great.” John smiled softly and Harold smiled back.

“Italian is the perfect Christmas meal.”

John followed Harold into the kitchen, which opened onto a small dining room. Handing John the wine and a corkscrew, he took down two glasses. 

“Doesn't it get expensive, stocking all of these places with furniture and dishes?” John asked.

“I'll let you in on a secret. Most of the places where I stay are hotel suites.”

“I'm not surprised,” John answered, tugging the cork free and reaching for one of the glasses. 

“I like hotels. I like the anonymity.”

“You like the room service,” John said, holding out a glass for Harold to take.

“True,” Harold conceded. He did enjoy being able to order food whenever he wished and sending his clothes out to be cleaned rather than having to drag them to a dry cleaner himself was convenience worth paying for in his view. He took a sip of his wine. “Very nice.”

“I thought you'd approve,” John said, taking a drink himself.

The oven alarm went off and Harold handed John a knife and the garlic bread while be busied himself with carrying the lasagna into the dining room. John soon followed with a platter full of bread.

Taking his seat across from Harold at the round four-person table, John said, “No salad course?”

Harold frowned. “Why waste time on vegetables when there is lasagna to eat?” Picking up the spatula with one hand, he held out his other for John's plate.

“Good point,” John said, watching as Harold tried to corral a line of melted mozzarella which stretched from the pan to John's plate.

Having filled his own plate, Harold took a bite and closed his eyes in pleasure. Maggianno's really did make the best lasagna he'd ever tasted.

“I feel like a third wheel here, Finch,” John said, and Harold opened his eyes to look at him. John's expression was serious, but there was a teasing warmth in his voice. “I wouldn't want to stand in the way of your blissful communion with your dinner.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Reese. There are times when it's perfectly acceptable to indulge in a threesome, and Maggianno's lasagna is one of those times.”

“To threesomes then,” John said, lifting his glass. Tilting his head in the direction of the garlic bread, he added, “Or is this a foursome?”

“Don't be silly. The bread only ever watches.” Harold clinked his glass to John's.

 

The mood had shifted during dinner, falling into a comfortable silence. Harold was fine with that. One of the things he liked most about John was that he appreciated quiet as much as Harold himself did. And he had an unusual ability to be still. Harold had wondered more than once if it was something innate in John or something he'd learned in the military. He imagined John had been extremely good at missions requiring stealth.

They cleaned up the remains of dinner together, John washing while Harold filled two containers with leftovers, one for himself and one for John. Of course, they'd both probably end up in the library's refrigerator. As part of the clean-up, Harold filled their glasses with the last of the wine, placing the bottle in the recycle bin. 

Handing John his glass, Harold led the way into the living room. They settled onto the slightly overstuffed couch in front of the fire, with John relaxing into one end, his arm stretched along the back and his hand nearly touching Harold who was in the middle.

“Bear found his spot,” John said.

Harold followed John's gaze to wear Bear was curled up in an armchair near the stairs. “I'm amazed he slept through dinner.” Bear was very good at looking deprived whenever the people around him were eating, even if his bowl was full.

“I took him for a run earlier.”

“Perhaps that's it.” Harold took a drink of his wine and relaxed into the back of the couch, content to sit with John and talk about nothing at all.

John squeezed his shoulder. “I know it's early, but I want to give you your present.”

“Then by all means...”

With a small smile, John rose and went to the door, returning with what was clearly a frame wrapped in brown paper. Harold didn't hesitate to tear it, revealing the painting he had admired in Rome. “John,” he said. He'd liked the painting, but it was the thought and effort that John must've put in to finding it, buying it, and having it shipped that touched him.

“You like it?”

Harold looked up at him. “Very much. Thank you.”

John's pleased smile was as much a gift as the painting. “You're welcome.”

Harold didn't have to go far for John's gift. It was sitting on table at the end of the couch, wrapped in red paper. Picking it up, he doubted once again if he'd done the right thing, but it was too late now. Turning, he handed it to John.

John removed the paper, his expression growing puzzled as he looked at the box containing an electronic picture frame.

“You have to open it and turn it on.”

The box was quickly opened and it took John just a moment to find the power switch. He moved it and an image of a smiling Detective Carter appeared on the screen. After a moment, it changed to a photo of her with her son.

John didn't say anything, just watched as the images changed. It had taken Harold a while to find them. The detective had not been one for selfies. Given John's reaction, he clearly should have gone with a book and a bottle of Scotch. “John?”

“Thank you.” John turned toward him, a vulnerability in his face that not even years of training and his own stoic nature could hide. “I mean it, Harold. Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Wanting to ease the moment, he asked, “What shall we watch? I was thinking _Arsenic and Old Lace_. Or if you're not in the mood for a comedy, maybe _Key Largo_.”

“I'm always up for Cary Grant,” John said. 

Ignoring what was probably a deliberate double entendre, Harold went to get his laptop, grabbing a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses while he was at it. John rose to help, taking the glasses and bottle from him and setting them on a table beside the couch. When they sat back down, John was closer than before, his arm once again stretched along the back of the couch as Harold placed the computer partially on each of their laps and began streaming the film.

Bear woke partway through the movie and had to be fed. By the end of the film, he needed a walk. 

It was a nice night, seasonably cold, but not unpleasant. Many of the houses, most of which were comfortable old brownstones like Harold's, were decorated with lights, or had trees that could be seen through the windows. From one or two, they could hear the familiar chords of a holiday song.

Distracted by a particularly nice looking tree, Harold didn't notice he was stepping on ice, but before he could lose his balance, John's arm was around his waist. “Easy,” John said.

“I'm fine.”

“Mmm,” John agreed, but he left his hand where it was. “This is a nice neighborhood. Your kind of place.”

That surprised Harold. He doubted many who knew him would have considered this his kind of neighborhood. Nathan certainly wouldn't have. “How so?”

“It's unpretentious, warm.”

“John, I took you to an Italian tailor for handmade suits.”

“That's because you appreciate quality. Pretentious people buy expensive things because they want everyone to know they own expensive things. When you buy a first edition, it's because you like the book, not because you want to show off your library of first editions.”

“That's true, I suppose,” Harold admitted, but he was still doubtful.

“Pretentious people aren't usually kind. You are.”

“I try to be. But I'm afraid I haven't always lived up to my own ideals. I've done some things you would undoubtedly find disappointing.”

“Maybe, but I never said you were perfect, Harold.”

“No,” Harold agreed, feeling unaccountably warm, “you never did.”

 

It was late when they got back, but Harold still offered to watch another film, mainly because the night had been so pleasant he wasn't ready for it to end. John must've felt the same way, because he agreed to stay.

They opened the Scotch and reclaimed their places on the couch, this time with Bear claiming the far end.

John chose the film, another Cary Grant comedy, _Holiday_. Even though it was one he'd never seen, Harold found his eyes drifting shut less than an hour into the movie. 

“Come on, Harold,” John said, taking the laptop and closing it. “You need to sleep, and I'm sure you'll pay for it in the morning if you fall asleep here.”

Standing, John held out a hand for Harold. Taking it, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. “There's no need for you to go. I have a guest room.”

John looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “We can give Bear his presents in the morning.”

“He's a dog. He doesn't celebrate Christmas.”

“You don't know that. Besides, he's Dutch. Didn't they originate the whole idea of Santa Claus?”

“I think it was a more general Western European tradition,” Harold said, pushing slightly at John's shoulder to get him moving.

“We'll look it up tomorrow.”

A few minutes later Harold was tucked into his bed, the door open in case Bear wanted to wander in. He'd learned the hard way that he'd lose less sleep if he let Bear come and go as he pleased.

He heard John walking from the bathroom to the spare room, and then the footsteps stopped, which probably meant John was tucked away for the night. Satisfied, Harold closed his eyes.

 

The smell of bacon woke him, which led to momentary disorientation until he remembered that John was here.

Pulling on a robe, he made his way downstairs.

John was wearing his jeans from the day before and an undershirt, untucked, and he was standing over Harold's stove.

Turning, John said, “Good morning.”

Harold frowned, trying to figure out where the food had come from.

“I was getting ready to send Bear after you,” John said, shifting his attention back to the pan in front of him.

Harold crossed the kitchen to look. There was bacon in one pan and eggs in another. The toaster popped.

“Butter that for me, will you?” 

Harold dutifully began to butter the toast. “I'm sure none of this was here last night.”

“Fortunately, you have Muslim neighbors who happen to run the corner store. Otherwise, we'd be eating leftover lasagna for breakfast.” John pointed the spatula at him. “That was your plan, wasn't it?”

“Food is food,” he said somewhat defensively.

“And lasagna is not Christmas breakfast.”

Toast buttered, Harold filled the kettle and reached past John to put it on a back burner, their arms brushing. John moved to the side so Harold could turn the dial for the burner on the front of the stove.

“What did your family have for Christmas breakfast?” Harold asked, surprising himself.

“It depends. If my father was home on leave, banana pancakes. If he wasn't, eggs and bacon.” John glanced at him. “What about you?”

“I can't really remember what we had when my mother was alive. My father was fond of French toast...” His voice trailed off.

“I didn't mean to bring up an unpleasant memory.”

Harold looked over at John. “You didn't. It's just in the later years he'd sometimes forget he was making breakfast, and we'd get tomato soup and grilled cheese. Still, I liked cooking with him, although neither of us were very skilled at it. Most of our meals came from cans or the freezer.”

“Except for the French toast.”

“Except for that, yes.” Harold smiled at him, because John being careful with him always made him feel good, even when it was unnecessary. “Shall I set the table?”

“It is your table.”

 

Breakfast was followed by a mid-morning walk. When they got back, John gave Bear his presents, although watching the two of them play, he suspected they had been presents for John more than Bear.

Harold reheated some of the lasagna for lunch. Not long afterward, John left. Without him, the house seemed empty, even with Bear sleeping in the chair near the stairs, and Harold thought about leaving. But a hotel didn't feel right either. In the end, he picked up one of those first editions he'd purchased because he loved the story and read the rest of the day away.

 

Their next few numbers were blessedly straightforward, and the week went by quickly. 

Bear's new toys had moved to the library, where he and John were playing tug-of-war with a thick rope. “Hey, Harold,” John called, pulling his attention from the report he'd received from Mr. Partridge's accountant.

“Yes, John.”

“Since you hosted Christmas, I thought maybe we could do New Year's Eve at my place. I'll cook.”

This was new. They'd never spent the New Year together before. Harold turned to find John watching him. “I'd like that.”

“Come by around seven,” John said, refocusing his attention on his struggle with Bear.

“Would you like me to bring anything?”

“Wine? Dessert if you'd like some.”

“Red or white?” Harold asked, his mind churning. 

“White, I think. I'm not exactly a connoisseur. The wine I bought for Christmas was the extent of my expertise.”

“You were an international spy, I thought that came with the territory.”

“I always drank martinis.”

“Shaken, not stirred,” Harold suggested.

“Precisely.”

Harold decided he'd match the wine to the dessert. That way it wouldn't matter if it worked with dinner or not.

 

He and Bear arrived at John's loft promptly at 7 carrying two bottles of wine and a dessert box from Luisa's Bakery on 14th. 

John took his coat, which involved some juggling of the wine bag and dessert, and Harold unhooked Bear's leash. “Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes,” John said, starting back toward the kitchen.

Harold followed him, only to stop when John, standing in front of the stove, gave him a suspicious look. “I don't know if I should let you watch. You'll be less impressed if you see how it's done.”

“I am always impressed by people who can cook,” Harold said, placing the wine and dessert on the counter and leaning one hip against it while he watched John. “I once burned water.”

“You can't burn water,” John said, lifting the cover off of a skillet and poking at the contents, which appeared to be fish. 

“You're right. I didn't burn the water, just the pan which had contained the water and became very hot as the water all boiled out.”

John flashed him an amused smile, before using a whisk to stir the contents of a bowl he then poured into the skillet. 

“So what are we having?”

“Salmon and roasted vegetables. I decided to keep it simple.”

Salmon didn't sound very simple to Harold. Before he could comment, a timer went off and John bent to open the oven, withdrawing a pan full of what appeared to be asparagus and potatoes. He scraped the contents into a ceramic bowl, covered it with what Harold assumed was a silicone lid, and held it out to Harold. “Will you take this to the table?”

“Of course.” Harold hadn't noticed the table when he arrived, but it was set with plain white plates and dark blue napkins. There were iced glasses of water, empty wine glasses and a basket of bread, along with a big bowl of salad. John obviously wanted to make sure Harold ate his vegetables.

Returning to the kitchen, he asked if he should open the white or the red. John said to open whatever would go with fish and Harold opted for the white. They could always have the red with dessert. By the time he had the wine open, John was transferring the fish to a serving dish.

Following John to the table, Harold filled both of their glasses before taking a seat.

“Help yourself,” John said. 

Harold did, taking enough salad to make it look as though he wanted to eat salad, a larger portion of roasted vegetables and one of the two pieces of salmon. He tried the salmon first. “This is very good.”

“Glad you like it.”

John was clearly a culinary genius, because even the asparagus was good and the dressing on the salad improved one of Harold's least favorite dishes considerably. He was too busy enjoying the food to bother with conversation, but he did notice the way John was watching him, pleased and amused at the same time.

“You,” Harold said, taking a moment to sip from his wine before diving back in to the food, “are an excellent cook.”

“Why thank you, Harold.”

“Where did you learn?”

“Here and there,” John said, taking a drink of his wine. 

Harold nodded. It was the kind of evasion they both used to avoid things that were too personal.

But John must've changed his mind, because as he was setting the glass down, he added, “My mother. With my father away so much, she was pretty much a single parent. Involving me in cooking was probably the easiest way to keep me out from underfoot.”

“And you learned a lifelong skill.”

“I did.”

“What was your favorite thing to make?”

“I liked cookies, especially sugar cookies, the ones you roll out and cut with cookie cutters. Generally, the bigger the mess something made, the more I liked making it.”

Harold smiled. John was so precise now. The loft itself was spotless and as spare as the day Harold had given it to him. But the idea of a young John with a fondness for getting flour everywhere was appealing. 

“How about you? Did you and your dad ever bake?” John asked.

“We tried to make gingerbread men the first Christmas after my mother died. They were almost edible.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. Losing my mother was hard, and my father's Alzheimers was harder, but I was still blessed. I always knew, no matter what, that my father loved me, which is more than many of the children we've helped have had.”

John nodded and refocused his attention on his salmon. 

Harold did, too, and they ate in silence for a minute or two. Then John said, “I was lucky, too. My mother was pretty amazing, looking back on it. She kept me out of trouble.”

“Which must've been a challenge.”

“I did like to get into things.”

Harold was getting full, and he slowed his eating, chewing a roasted potato thoughtfully before speaking, “I imagine you were an independent child, going off on your own to explore, not bothering to tell her where you'd be.”

“Good guess.” John drained his wine glass, and Harold quickly refilled it, topping off his own. “Things changed after my father died. He'd been gone so much that it didn't make a big difference to me. When you're a kid, gone is gone. But my mother wasn't the same after he died. She withdrew into herself.”

“Did that scare you?” Harold asked, remembering that John had been around 12 at the time.

John nodded. “I kept trying to get her attention. I'd rebel one minute and try everything I could think of to make her feel better the next.”

“After my mother died, my father cried every night for weeks. I could hear him from my room. He would cry so long and so hard that I remember going to the library to research if it was possible for someone to cry himself to death.”

John's expression turned thoughtful, his fingers sliding up and down the stem of the wineglass. “Was it better for them to have loved and lost?”

Harold had never thought about it, so he took a moment. “For my father, it was. At least I'd like to think so, because without my mother he wouldn't have had me, and I hope I brought some happiness into his life.”

“I'm sure you did,” John said.

“Just like you did for your mother.”

“Yes.” John frowned. “But what if our parents hadn't had us, what if they'd just loved and lost. Wouldn't it be better to spare yourself the hurt?”

“No, no, I don't think so. Despite the pain of giving up Grace, I wouldn't have missed a moment of the time I spent with her, It isn't just that I was happy with her, it's that loving her shaped who I am. I wouldn't be me without her. Of course I wouldn't have loved her if I hadn't been who I am. How's that for a contradiction?” Harold asked rhetorically. “Same with Nathan. Different kind of love, but no less meaningful. So much of who I became is the result of our friendship and his death. Losing Nathan changed me, forced me to confront things about myself I'd rather not have faced. But I'm better for it.” Harold took a long drink of his wine. "Although that makes it sound terribly utilitarian. I didn't love them because of what it would do for me. I loved them because of who they were, and I hope I enriched their lives as much as they enriched mine. I want that, to have made their lives better." Satisfied he'd thought his way through John's question, Harold asked, “What about you?”

“I don't know. To be honest, I don't know how many more losses I can take.”

“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked.”

“I asked first. Besides, sometimes I think the answer is yes. Like you said, I'm a better person for knowing Joss and I think our friendship meant something to her, that it was good for her, but watching her die, that was...”

Reaching across the small table, Harold placed his hand on John's forearm. He wanted to say something comforting, but words seemed wholly inadequate to the task. 

John's hand covered his own. “How'd we get from my learning to cook to here?”

“I don't know. But I'm happy to go back to talking about what a magnificent cook you are.”

John snorted. “It was one meal, and a simple one at that.”

“If you say so.”

“Tell you what,” John said. “I'll make you dinner again next week, something that actually requires some skill.”

“I'd like that,” Harold said. 

Releasing Harold's hand, John pushed back his chair. “Should we have dessert before or after Bear's walk?”

“After.”

The snap of winter was definitely in the air, but they still walked the circumference of the park next to John's home twice in the possibly vain hope Bear wouldn't need to go out again tonight. 

“Irish coffee?” John asked when they stepped back in to the loft.

Harold wasn't a huge fan of coffee, but a hot beverage did sound appealing. “Please.” Once again he followed John to the kitchen area, watching as John filled and started the coffeemaker. 

“I have a surprise for you,” John said. “I bought some DVDs for us to watch. They're over by the couch.”

Never one to delay satisfying his curiosity, Harold immediately went to look. He found a complete set of the original _Star Trek_. 

“What do you think?” John asked.

“I think you have very good taste in television shows.”

They watched several episodes, mostly in silence except when Kirk took his shirt off, which was far more often than Harold remembered and never failed to provoke a a comment from John.

“He wasn't trying to seduce Spock,” Harold argued without any real conviction. He'd never regarded his body as a tool of seduction, but maybe men like Kirk and John, men with bodies worth showing off, did.

“How else do you explain it? Kirk walks into his quarters with his shirt on, takes it off, gets out a clean shirt and then, instead of putting it on, calls Spock on a video channel. Clearly, he's trying to impress Spock with his naked chest,” John countered.

“Or the producers are trying to impress viewers with Shatner's naked chest.”

“My explanation is more fun.”

Which, Harold had to admit, it was. It also wasn't the first time he'd wondered if John was interested in men, at least on occasion. “All right. I'll concede the point, Mr. Reese. Kirk was obviously attempting to seduce his first officer.”

“Which also explains why he touches him so much.”

“The real question,” Harold said, “is whether or not it worked.”

John shook his head. “Spock's totally out of Kirk's league.”

“I'm not sure Spock would see it that way.”

“Probably not,” John said, and pressed play, causing the episode to resume.

Just as it was ending, Harold yawned widely, which made him look at his watch. It was almost 1:30. “I should go.”

“It's late and it's New Year's Eve,” John said. “You should stay. I can take the couch.”

“I'm not kicking you out of your bed,” Harold said, although the truth was he didn't particularly want to leave. He'd had enough of the cold when they were walking Bear.

“The couch is perfectly comfortable.”

“I'm sure it is, but the bed is more than large enough for two.”

John looked at him for a long moment. “All right.” Rising, John carried their empty mugs to the sink. “There's an unused toothbrush in the medicine cabinet,” he said over his shoulder.

Harold found the toothbrush and quickly got ready for bed. John entered the bathroom as he was exiting, leaving Harold to stare at John's big bed, which was up against the wall. John would undoubtedly want to sleep on the outside, the better to fend off any invaders. Stripping to his boxers and t-shirt, he climbed beneath the covers and slid to the far side.

John came out of the bathroom in his boxers and a shirt. and turned the lights off as he crossed to the bed. 

It wasn't until John was laying beside him that Harold realized they'd missed midnight. “We never did the countdown.”

Instead of answering, John turned onto his side, leaned over him and pressed his lips briefly to Harold's. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, John.”

Then John turned on to his side facing the other way and Harold closed his eyes.

In the morning they had pancakes, and Harold considered marrying John just for his cooking.

 

A week later John arrived at the library wearing a new suit. Harold had begun to wonder when they'd arrive.

“I see your time in Italy was a sartorial success,” he couldn't help but observe.

“What can I say? New suit, new man,” John answered.

“New number,” Ms. Shaw put in.

And with that they were engaged in the case of Jiao Lin, a former Olympic gymnast turned thief. Privately, Harold could admit he'd liked this one. There were no earth-shattering consequences, just the rescue of a girl and her mother.

Plus, the gala had been enjoyable for the few minutes they'd been able to attend, and John had looked nice in his new tux. Gianni did impeccable work.

Stepping out into the brisk January air after an evening celebrating the safety of Ms. Lin and her daughter, Harold inhaled deeply, waiting while John secured the library behind them. “May I walk with you, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked as John came alongside him.

“Of course.”

They fell easily into step. Harold had always appreciated how John could match his long stride to Harold's limping gait without making it obvious. Bear, too, had learned to content himself with Harold's pace, although Harold suspected he liked the extra time it gave him to explore. He walked ahead of them, happily sniffing the ground.

John looped his arm through Harold's, as if they were Holmes and Watson in a Paget illustration. “We could do it, you know.”

Harold glanced at him.

“Steal the crown jewels,” John said, referencing Detective Fusco's suggestion from earlier in the evening.

“They'd be difficult to sell.”

“Who said anything about selling? I figured we'd just put the crown on your head and declare you king. I could head your personal security or serve as your valet. Or both.”

“You should be king, Mr. Reese. You look the part.”

“I'd make a terrible king. I could never do that twisty wave or all of that benevolent smiling.”

“Royalty only smile like that now because they have no real power. I doubt Henry VIII smiled benevolently or much at all.”

“Maybe he smiled every time he ordered someone's head removed,” John suggested.

“In that case, Ms. Shaw should rule.”

John grinned and Harold smiled back. 

They walked in an easy silence, until Bear stopped to claim a lamppost. “This was a good number,” John said while they waited.

“It was.”

“I wish they all ended like this.”

“Me too.”

“Assuming we don't get a new number, do you want to have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Of course.”

Bear finished his business and they resumed their journey.

 

The winter passed as it always did. The numbers kept coming, but they were, for the most part, straightforward, a man who wanted to kill his business partner, a woman who was being stalked, a foolish, desperate kid who tried to hold up a liquor store with a gun. Harold might've enjoyed the simplicity of it, if it hadn't felt so much like the calm before the storm.

He and John went for walks, watched movies and dined together. John made Harold dinner at least once a week.

A month after rescuing Ms. Lin, they were presented with the number of another woman in danger, a 9-1-1 operator who was being coerced by a man who had kidnapped a boy. The team had saved them both and not even a threatening call from the kidnapper could dampen Harold's good mood as he walked along the waterfront between John and Ms. Shaw.

“It's not a bad day, for February. I think I'll take Bear to the park. Want to come?” John asked, looking at Harold.

The day was brisk, but not unpleasant. “I'd like that.”

“We can make a day of it, get some lunch, catch a movie,” John said.

“An excellent plan, Mr. Reese.” Harold turned to the woman on his other side. “Ms. Shaw?”

“Thanks, but no. Third wheel was never my favorite position.” They had reached the intersection and Ms. Shaw started across the street. “I'll see you gents later,” she said with a wave.

Harold waved back.

John pressed a hand to the center of Harold's back. “Let's go get Bear.” 

Harold let himself be led toward a cab.

For a long time that day would remain in Harold's memory as their last perfect day before all hell broke loose. Not that hell broke loose at all, really. It was more of a rough slide toward the underworld at varying speeds, with plenty of time to acquire scrapes and bruises along the way.

It began when they received the number for one Cyril Wells, a self-made millionaire turned janitor. In the end the team, along with Ms. Groves, had managed to save him, but Decima had gotten its hands on a prototype for the most powerful computer chip yet made.

Harold's nights had gone from mostly sleepless to completely sleepless.

He was at the library after another day spent futilely trying to find some trace of Decima, when John arrived. Harold barely glanced at him as John crossed the room to stand behind Harold, one hand resting on his shoulder.

“Come on,” John said, giving Harold's shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Time to go.”

“I can't.”

“You can,” John countered. “You need rest, Harold.”

Turning, Harold frowned up at him. “Did Ms. Groves tell you that?”

“No, the circles under your eyes told me that.”

“I have work...”

“Which you will be better at if you take a break.” John softened his voice. “I don't know what's coming, but I do know that the best way to face it is with a full belly and a good night's sleep.”

“You're a practical man, Mr. Reese.”

“I am, which is why I'm offering to take you home and make you dinner. You can even stay over if you want.”

“What are you making?” Harold asked. It wouldn't do to appear too persuadable.

“Beef stroganoff.”

“And breakfast, if I stay over?”

“Omelets.”

Harold liked omelets well enough, but not as much as John's pancakes. That opinion must've shown in his face, because John added, “Omelets are better for you than pancakes.”

“We can put blueberries in them. Blueberries are good for you. As I understand it, they're full of antioxidants.”

“What is this 'we?'” John asked. “You don't cook.”

“I can stir.”

“You're a genius, yet you can barely boil water. I'm beginning to think you only feign being bad at cooking to get out of doing it.”

“I'm too proud for that,” Harold said, standing. “I hate being bad at things.”

“So why are you such a bad cook?” John asked, holding Harold's coat while Harold slid his arms into the sleeves.

“My mind wanders.”

“Makes sense,” John said, as he led them to the door, hand resting familiarly on Harold's back.

John's loft wasn't far from the library. Bear greeted them when they entered, tail wagging happily as he pressed his head to Harold's thigh, requesting a pat. While Harold was busy with Bear, John carried the blueberries into the kitchen.

John had already begun slicing the beef into strips when Harold entered the kitchen. After washing and drying his hands, he asked how he could help.

Nodding in the direction of a container of mushrooms, John said, “You can wash and slice those.”

“You're trusting me with a knife?”

“I'm trusting you with mushrooms,” John answered.

Smiling, Harold pulled a cutting board from beneath the sink and a colander from the cupboard next to it and began washing the mushrooms. While Harold was slicing away, John left the kitchen and a few moments later the apartment was filled with the sounds of jazz.

“Who's this?” Harold asked. He knew far more about classical music than jazz, but he was happy to learn under John's surprisingly expert tutelage.

“Oscar Peterson. I think you'll like him.”

“I'm sure I will.” Harold found himself smiling as he listened to the intricate and often playful piano. He didn't quite start tapping his foot as he sliced, but it was a near thing.

Later, he watched as John magically turned beef, mushrooms, noodles and cognac into dinner. Bear, of course, stretched out alongside the table, head resting on his paws, looking forlornly up at Harold while they ate, as though Harold was the easier touch. Harold steadfastly ignored him in favor of enjoying the food, the company and the view.

If asked, Harold would say he had absolutely no knowledge of how Bear managed to get a piece of beef to snack on as they were cleaning up dinner. When John looked from the dog to Harold and smirked, Harold simply gazed back, doing his best imitation of John's blank expression.

When the cleanup was complete, John poured them each a glass of cognac and they made their way to the couch. 

“Ms. Groves believes two gods are about to go to war,” Harold said, because he couldn't pretend everything was fine any longer.

“That's only if Decima can bring Samaritan online.”

“They're getting closer every day. She also said that when Samaritan goes live, lots of people will die, with you, me, Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw at the top of the list.”

“That's what I'd expect,” John said. 

Harold looked up at him. John gazed back from his end of the couch. “You're being very calm about all of this, Mr. Reese.”

“I never expected to die in my bed of old age. You gave me something worth fighting for, people worth fighting for. If I go down, it'll be at your side, protecting you. I'm okay with that.”

“I'm not.”

“In that case, we should do whatever we can to stop Samaritan.”

“Need I remind you, that's what we've been trying to do and we've failed every time.”

“So we keep trying, and eventually maybe we'll succeed.”

“And if we don't?”

“Then we die.” John put his cognac down on the table at the end of the couch and slid closer. “I don't know what you want me to say, Harold. I could lie and tell you we're unbeatable, that we'll triumph in the end, but you'd know it for a lie.”

“I would,” Harold admitted. In truth, he didn't know what he wanted John to say, either. Maybe he just wanted someone to share his fear, but John didn't give in to fear, not easily.

“I do know this,” John said, resting a hand on Harold's knee. “We've beaten the odds more then once. You, me, Shaw, Fusco, even Root, we're smart and we're resourceful. If anyone can stop them, it's us, but if we give up before the battle has even begun we've lost already.”

Harold nodded. “I know. I'm just...”

“Afraid,” John suggested.

“Yes.”

“A reasonable response, given the circumstances. You know what isn't reasonable?”

Harold shook his head.

“Guilt,” John said, his eyes locked on Harold's face, not letting Harold look away. “You didn't create Samaritan and you aren't responsible for Decima's actions.”

“If I hadn't built the Machine...”

“A lot of people would be dead, including me, and Samaritan likely would've been operational for years. If Root's right and these machines are gods, I choose yours over Decima's.”

“How did you know I was feeling guilty?”

“I know you,” John said, which Harold had to admit he did, better than Harold expected him to. “Would you like some advice from someone who has spent a lot of time in situations like this?”

“Please.”

“You can't let fear of what might happen paralyze you. Plan ahead, think through all the possible outcomes, but you have to stay focused on the here and the now, on this moment. Otherwise, you won't make it.”

It was good advice, Harold knew. But living in the moment had never been his strong suit. He was a planner by nature and he was happiest when his contingency plans had contingency plans. Still, he nodded and held out his glass. “In this moment, I could use some more cognac.”

Rising, John returned with the bottle. After refreshing both their drinks, John turned on a movie, but Harold found his eyes drifting shut after just a few sips. He was vaguely aware of John's arm coming around him as Humphrey Bogart searched for the Maltese Falcon on the screen in front of them.

When he woke, sunlight was streaming into the loft and John was sitting on the couch in sweats and a t-shirt, reading a newspaper. Harold sat up. He had no idea how he'd gotten from the couch to John's bed, but he assumed John had woken him enough to get him to move, and, he looked down, undress. His mouth tasted like he hadn't brushed his teeth. “How long was I asleep?” 

“About 12 hours,” John said, putting down the paper. “Feeling better?”

“I will after a shower.” He frowned. “And a toothbrush.”

“The one you used last time is on the counter.”

“Thanks,” Harold said, pushing himself from the bed.

There was a package of new underwear in the bathroom too, which Harold appreciated. Wearing a suit two days in a row was one thing, but he'd been in these boxers for more than 24 hours.

By the time he'd showered and dressed, John was flipping pancakes in the kitchen. “Does he need a walk?” Harold asked as he approached, stepping awkwardly over Bear who was sleeping in the middle of the kitchen.

“He went with me when I got the paper.”

Harold nodded. John tended to be an early riser and had probably been up for hours. “Anything I can do?”

“Sit and drink your tea before it gets cold.”

Harold sat and picked up the cup on the table. It was a tad cooler than he preferred, but still drinkable. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” John said, sliding a plate full of pancakes in front of him.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, which was fine with Harold, who wasn't quite up to morning chatter. He finished before John and began cleaning up. John let him, even handing Harold his plate to wash when he was done eating.

As the dishes drained, Harold dried his hands and turned toward John, who had just finished wiping down the table. “John, thank you, for everything.”

“You're welcome.” John stepped closer, stopping directly in front of him. “Just remember what I said. Don't get yourself so tied up in knots that you can't function in the here and now.”

“I'll try.”

“And remember, whatever happens, we'll face it together.”

Before Harold could answer, John's arms closed around him in a brief hug that left Harold too startled to respond. He could've sworn that as John released him lips brushed his forehead.

“It's your turn to take Bear,” John said, arms falling back to his sides. 

“Of course.” Looking down at the dog, who was looking up at them curiously, Harold said, “Come on, Bear, time to go.” He crossed to the doorway, where he retrieved his coat and Bear's leash.

“I'm going to get in a yoga class, but I'll come by the library after,” John said, watching as Harold prepared to leave.

“I'll look forward to it, Mr. Reese.” Harold said, then he closed the door behind him.

 

Less than a week later, they received the number for an engineer, Maria Martinez, whose lover had been accused of terrorism. He wasn't a terrorist. He was a translator who knew Decima had diverted generators intended for a dam in Iraq for its own use. For Samaritan.

Now they had the code for Samaritan, chips capable of running it and generators to provide the power.

Harold's futile searches took on a new urgency. John kept an eye on him, often watching from the table in the library where he liked to clean his guns while Harold tried to think of anything that might help. He'd even begun looking at other systems Arthur had created, hoping he might find a habitual weakness in his code, one that might've been replicated in Samaritan. So far, he'd found nothing, except maybe a greater respect for his friend's abilities. 

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes. He needed to get out of the library, away from screens for a while. “John, would you like to get some dinner?” Harold asked.

“What did you have in mind?”

“The diner.” Harold turned to look at him. “I'm in the mood for mashed potatoes.”

“Sounds good,” John said, rising and retrieving their coats.

They ate at the diner often enough that the staff let Bear in without a word. But that was mostly breakfast. Unsure how the evening staff would react to a dog, Harold put Bear in his service vest. 

John smiled and shook his head.

“What?” Harold asked, straightening.

“It's nice to know even you aren't above bending the rules.”

“I would think you of all people would consider Bear a service dog. After all, you got him so I'd feel safe.”

“And to keep you safe.”

“See? Service dog.”

John didn't answer, just pressed the button on the elevator door. Clearly, Harold had won this round.

 

They ordered quickly. Turkey with gravy and mashed potatoes for Harold, the same for John, but with fries. Bear was getting a hamburger, sans bun and condiments. 

They'd gotten a booth by the window and John was looking out, watching a late March snowfall. As Harold looked at him, the thought of what was coming was suddenly too much. 

“You should go,” Harold said.

John shifted his attention to Harold.

“I'll get you all the resources you need, money Samaritan can't trace, and you should go somewhere remote, where there aren't any cameras or GPS trackers.”

“Why would I do that?”

“So you can stay alive.” Reaching across the table, Harold placed his hand over John's. “I want you to live.”

“What good will being alive do me if everyone I care about is dead?” Turning his hand, John captured Harold's hand in his. “I want you to live, too.”

“I know.”

“And you aren't going anywhere.”

“I can't,” Harold answered, feeling desperate now. “But you can.”

“I'd only leave if you left with me.”

“John.”

“Which you won't.” 

“You didn't sign on for this,” Harold insisted. “The job was supposed to be preventing murders, not battling H.R., or Elias, or Russian mobsters. And certainly not going to war with Decima.”

John stroked the back of Harold's hand with his thumb. “I'm glad I met you. I'm glad I went to work with you. I'm glad we took on H.R., Elias, all of them. They were fights worth fighting. So is this.”

“That doesn't mean you have to be on the front lines. You've done your share.”

“I could say the same about you.” John leaned forward. “I don't abandon the people I care about.”

“I know that.”

“I won't abandon you.”

“You're very stubborn, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, accepting defeat. Part of him was unhappy John wouldn't leave while another part rejoiced that he would be near. 

“So are you.” John smiled, slow and mischievous. “Tell you what, when this all over I'll take you somewhere remote, with no cell phone service or wifi hotspots. It'll be a vacation.”

No internet? Harold was appalled. Nevertheless, he said, “I'll hold you to that, Mr. Reese.”

The waitress arrived with their meals, and Harold was forced to let go of John's hand. Several times during dinner he had to stop himself from reaching for it again.

 

John's loft was close and they walked toward it by unspoken agreement. Harold's arm looped casually through John's.

They stopped in front of John's building. “Would you like to come up?” John asked, head tilting towards the entrance.

Harold's first instinct was to say yes, but he shook his head. “Not tonight.” If he went to John's tonight he'd stay the night, and Harold was certain they'd do more in John's bed than sleep. But he didn't want it to happen like this, with desperation crawling beneath his skin.

With a soft “good-night, Harold,” John turned away. Before he could take a step, Harold reached out, his arms wrapping around John and pulling him close.

After the barest hesitation, John embraced him. 

Harold rested his cheek against the front of John's shoulder, his face turned in toward John's chest. 

John simply held him close.

Lifting his face, Harold looked up at him. “Another night.”

John answered with a press of his lips to Harold's forehead.

Harold stepped back as John loosened his hold. “Good-night, John.”

He watched as John entered the building. It wasn't until the lights went on in the loft that he tugged Bear into motion.

 

After that, there was little time for worrying or thinking. Events happened quickly, one after another, with barely any time in between to catch their breath. While John and Ms. Shaw were working a number at a high school reunion, Harold and Detective Fusco went to D.C. to investigate Vigilance.

In the end, all they had done was help Vigilance get information it needed to expose Northern Lights, the government's name for the Machine and the people who worked the relevant numbers.

Before Harold could return to New York, they received the number for Representative Roger McCourt. 

The Congressman wasn't a victim or a perpetrator. He was someone for whom helping Decima get funding for Samaritan was just another day of Washington dealmaking. 

John believed the Machine was suggesting they kill McCourt. That was a line Harold couldn't cross. He now knew his answer to the trolley problem. Do you let a runaway train kill five people if diverting it will kill one? Harold, it turned out, would let the five die.

But when he'd made that decision he hadn't known Grace might be one of the five.

Not that Decima and Samaritan were going to stop at five. The Machine had told Ms. Shaw hundreds would die and now those hundreds would be on his conscience.

Staring at the fireplace, he decided he really should've taken down the greenery after Christmas. He considered getting up to remove it, but there was no point.

He'd told John and Ms. Shaw that if Decima hurt Grace, they should kill them all. A small part of his wondered what that made him, the rest was too angry and afraid over Grace's kidnapping to care. 

When the knock came, he knew who it was before he opened the door. He'd only ever brought one person here. Vaguely, he wondered how long it had taken John to find him. Opening the door, he stepped back, giving the other man room to enter. 

“I can go if you'd ra--” John started.

“Stay,” Harold said, cutting him off.

John nodded. He looked – bereft. Harold wanted to tell him he wasn't dead yet, but they both knew it was just a matter of time. “Have you eaten?” John asked.

Harold shook his head.

“You should. Food, rest, get them while you can.”

Being held prisoner was something John knew far more about than he did, so Harold didn't argue. “There isn't much here, I'm afraid.”

John lifted the bag in his hand. “Come on,” he said, taking hold of Harold's arm and guiding him toward the kitchen. “I'll fix you something.”

John removed eggs, milk and bread from the bag. Harold watched as be broke several eggs into a bowl, poured in some milk and pulled a whisk Harold hadn't known he owned from a drawer. The sight of John whipping something in a bowl or wielding a spatula had become familiar the past few months. John was an attentive cook, but Harold had never seen him focus quite so intently on the contents of a bowl before. It was as if he expected the slices of bread he was so carefully dipping into eggs and milk to reveal the secrets of the universe. Or maybe just how to save Harold from Decima.

Usually, they talked while John cooked, but none of the things that needed to be said could be spoken about while John dropped sodden bread onto a griddle.

Harold wasn't sure they could be said at all.

 

When the French toast – with a dash of cinnamon, because Harold had once confessed to cinnamon being his father's secret ingredient – was done they sat at the same table where they'd shared Christmas Eve dinner less than four months before.

This dinner was even quieter.

John wasn't a man inclined to speak just to hear himself talk, and Harold had found it strange at first, being the more talkative friend. Their silences had always been comfortable, settling around them while Harold worked and John cleaned his guns, read, or played with Bear. “Where's Bear?” he asked.

“With Shaw.”

Harold nodded. It was probably for the best. He could say good-bye in the morning. What little appetite he'd had deserted him and Harold put his fork down. “I'm sorry, John. It's delicious, but I don't seem to have much of an appetite.”

“Me either.” Rising, John picked up both of their plates and carried them into the kitchen where he began scraping the remainder of dinner into the disposal. 

Following, Harold rested a hand in the center of John's back. “I'm sorry.” He felt a shudder pass through John.

“If I'd killed that damn Congressman--”

“No,” Harold said. “No.”

“His life is not worth yours or Grace's.”

“Killing him might not have prevented any of this.”

“That's not what your Machine concluded.”

“You carry enough burdens, John. Please don't add this to them.”

“I can't lose you,” John said, voice low. “I don't know how to lose you.”

“I know,” Harold answered, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

John turned, his arms going around Harold.

Harold didn't think he'd ever been held this tightly, but he couldn't complain, not when he was gripping John just as hard. 

“Harold,” John said, voice rough.

He lifted his head from John's shoulder, looking up. John's lips touched his. Given the circumstances, he would've expected John's kiss to be hard, desperate, but it was soft and tentative. The uncertainty in it made Harold hurt for John, who should never be uncertain, not about this.

Their height difference and Harold's injury meant the angle was terrible. Rising onto his toes, Harold pressed his lips more firmly to John's. John pressed back, holding Harold against him as they kissed, careful touches full of barely contained fear and heartbreak.

Once he'd realized this was where they were heading, Harold had hoped that when it happened there'd be joy in it. Given who they were and what they did, he should've known better.

“Stay with me tonight,” he said when they parted.

There was no hesitation in John's answering 'yes.'

Letting go, Harold stepped back, out of John's arms. John looked like Harold felt, like someone had scooped out his insides and just left them there, dangling, where anyone could see. Turning, he left the kitchen, shutting off the light as he passed the switch. John followed, watching as Harold double-checked the security system and turned off the remaining lights before leading the way to his bedroom.

Once there, he switched on a small lamp beside the bed and turned to look up at John.

He was standing about a foot away. Somewhere along the journey from the kitchen to bedroom, he'd managed to regain some of his customary control. The smooth, opaque expression was almost a comfort.

Stepping toward him, Harold lifted a hand to John's face, tracing the familiar cheekbone with his fingertips. “I've never done this,” he said.

“It's not hard.”

Despite the circumstances, the corner of Harold's mouth twitched upward.

“Okay,” John conceded, “some things are hard, if you do it right.”

“Will we do it right?”

“We can't do it wrong,” John answered, covering Harold's hand with his own and turning his head just enough so he could press his lips to the inside of Harold's wrist.

Harold wasn't sure if it was the intensity of the moment or if his wrist was a previously undiscovered erogenous zone, but he gasped at the sensation.

The second touch was firmer, and it was followed by a third. Then he kissed the center of Harold's palm. Releasing his hand, John reached for his jacket. Harold stood still as John slid it from his shoulders, then looked for a place to leave it.

“Just drop it on the floor.”

“Harold.” John was clearly trying to sound scandalized, but it came out pleased.

“Leave your own next to it.”

John did as Harold suggested, removing his jacket and dropping it carelessly to the floor.

To Harold's disappointment, John didn't remove his shirt. Instead, he sat on the bed and guided Harold to stand between his legs.

“I'm guessing this will be easier on your neck,” John said, placing a hand on the back of said neck and bringing Harold's lips down to his.

Resting his hands on John's shoulders. Harold concentrated on the kiss, on how easily their lips fit together, on how John set an unhurried pace, as if he was pretending they had come together when they were ready instead of with the sword of Damocles hanging over their heads.

John's hands gripped his hips, and Harold deepened the kiss.

When John slid his hands upward, over the softness that came from years of spending most of his waking hours in front of a computer screen, Harold forced away the thought that his body wouldn't please John.

John's hands continued moving upward, settling on his tie.

Breaking their kiss, Harold straightened and loosened it just enough to get it over his head. The tie joined his jacket on the floor, and Harold opened the top couple of buttons on his shirt. Perfect or not, he wanted to be with John, wanted to be naked with John.

John joined him in his efforts, undoing several more buttons before tugging Harold's shirt free of his pants.

Harold was about to take it off when he remembered his cufflinks. Before he could remove them, John said, “Let me.”

Maybe he did have some sort of previously unknown wrist thing because watching John remove first one cufflink and then the other and set them on the stand beside Harold's bed was oddly erotic.

Harold let his shirt fall to the floor. He intended to begin removing John's, but John's lips were right there so Harold kissed him instead.

Every kiss was better than the last, leaving Harold with no intention of stopping.

When John lay back, Harold followed him down, ending up on top of his friend where he discovered solid evidence of John's own enjoyment. “I believe we've gotten to the hard portion of the night.”

John chuckled. The unguarded affection on his face made Harold's breath catch.

“You're overdressed,” Harold said, to stop himself from saying something foolish.

“We'll get there,” John said, shifting his hips and causing his erection to brush against Harold's through layers of clothing. “No need to rush.”

“No,” Harold agreed, moving his own hips in response. “No need.”

John smiled.

“You're breathtaking when you smile,” Harold said, gazing down at him. “Sometimes you smile and I wish I could take you somewhere where you could smile all the time, give you a life where you wouldn't have a reason not to smile.” So much for not saying anything foolish.

“No one gets to have a life without pain or loss. You know that.”

“I do, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't give you one if I could,” Harold said. John was looking at him with something close to wonder. Knowing how little he deserved that look, Harold bent to kiss it away.

They kissed until Harold couldn't keep his hips still any longer and pressed forward, rubbing himself against John. 

John responded by rolling them so Harold was on his back. Rising onto his knees, he began unbuttoning his shirt. 

Harold considered complaining about John being too far away for him to help, then decided he was content to watch.

The shirt and John's undershirt both joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The light from the lamp highlighted the golden undertones in John's skin. And there was a lot of skin. John's chest was broad, mostly hairless, with two brown nipples. There was a softening around John's middle that made Harold feel better about his own.

The light was too dim to show the scars Harold knew were there, for which he was grateful. John's mortality was something Harold didn't want to think about, not tonight, preferably not ever again.

Lifting himself on to one arm, he ran the other up John's chest, fingertips brushing a nipple. “You still haven't taken off your shoes.”

“I know.”

“I want to see you naked.”

“I know.”

“I want to touch you.”

“I want you to touch me.”

“So get undressed.”

“All right,” John said, slipping from the bed.

Harold sat up. There wasn't anything enticing about watching John remove his shoes, except he was removing them so he could get into Harold's bed and that was enticing. Maybe, Harold thought, he should've been braver. Maybe they could've been doing this for weeks, months, years, if he had been willing to admit his reaction to John, to act on that admission.

John removed his pants and boxers at the same time, and there it was – John's cock.

Harold couldn't stop himself from reaching out, sliding his hand along it.

John's inhalation was loud in the quiet of the room. “Now, who's overdressed?” John teased.

Reluctantly, Harold removed his hand from John's shaft and reached for his socks, pulling them off then standing. John was right there, and Harold barely had to lean forward to brush his lips across the bare skin at the front of John's shoulder. 

“Undress for me, Harold,” John said.

John's voice was low and intimate, irresistible. Harold pulled his undershirt up and over his head, reaching immediately for his pants. As soon as he had them open, John's hand was there, warm and strong, wrapping around him through his boxers.

Harold rested his forehead on John's shoulder.

John moved his thumb across the head, still with fabric separating them, but it was enough. 

“John,” Harold breathed.

“I want to stroke you, suck you, make you come. I want to know your taste, your scent, the sounds you make when the pleasure is almost too much too take.”

Harold was certain John felt the shudder that went through him. “Anything. Anything for you.”

John's free hand cupped the back of his head, supporting him as John bent to kiss him. It was slow, heated. Harold leaned into it, giving himself over to John, to the way he was guiding them from one kiss to another, and to the sweet pressure of his hand on Harold's cock.

Breaking the kiss, John slid his lips down the side of Harold's neck, trailing soft kisses, pausing when he found the spot that made Harold gasp and press his hips helplessly forward. John lingered there, sucking lightly as he moved his thumb again, rubbing Harold's frenulum in a slow deliberate caress. “You're still overdressed,” John whispered.

“That's because someone couldn't keep his hands to himself long enough for me to get the rest off.”

“Mmm,” John agreed and repeated the slow rub with his thumb.

Harold clutched John's sides. “If you let go, I'll get naked.”

“Do you want me to let go?”

“Yes and no.”

“Let me guess, yes, because then you'll be naked and we can do so much more when we're both naked, and no, because you don't want me to stop touching you.”

“Perceptive as always, Mr. Reese.”

“It wasn't that hard to figure out,” John answered, this time accompanying his words with the glide of his hand over Harold's length. With a quick squeeze, he pulled his hand away.

Taking a step away from John, Harold pushed his pants and boxers to the floor. Naked, he moved toward John, who reach out, arms going around him and pulling him close.

Harold wrapped his own arms around John's shoulders as John pressed his face into the curve of Harold's neck. John's words from earlier echoed in his head. Harold didn't know how to lose John either, even though it was happening, as he had known it would. A comfortable old age wasn't in the cards for them, never had been. 

John slid his hand up the center of John's back, firm and gentle, and Harold shuddered. John repeated the caress.

Turning his head, Harold kissed the side of John's neck. He followed it with another, creating a trail of small but deliberate kisses. When he reached John's ear, John shifted just enough to give Harold easier access. Taking that as encouragement, he captured the lobe and sucked gently, getting a small gasp in return.

Knowing this was it, all they were likely to have, Harold lingered. He didn't want to rush, wanted to leave John with a memory worth having.

Harold slid his hand from John's shoulder to his chest, fingers deliberately brushing a nipple. He didn't know if John's nipples were sensitive, but he wanted them to be. He wanted to find every sensitive place and caress it again and again until John was shuddering with pleasure.

With a final tug on John's lobe, he released it, looking up at John who immediately kissed him.

John's kiss was slow, deep and searching. He had no idea how kissing could get better each time they did it, but it was. Harold's hips pressed forward of their own accord, rubbing his cock against John's upper thigh.

“Harold,” John whispered.

Eyes on John's face, Harold took a step back, then another, not stopping until the backs of his legs hit the bed. Feeling a little awkward, he turned and pulled back the covers, shoving them out of the way before laying down in the center of his bed.

John followed him a heartbeat later, settling onto his side, one hand resting on Harold's chest.

Rubbing his fingers across John's nipple, Harold asked, “Are they sensitive?”

Before John could answer, he added, “I always thought we'd have time to explore. I wanted that time, John. I wanted to learn your body, its textures, its tastes, discover all of the sensitive places.”

“We have tonight.”

It wasn't enough. Harold was certain John knew that because John kissed him again, casual and unhurried, like they had more than tonight, like he was going to kiss Harold the same way tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that.

Harold wrapped his arms around John and kissed him back.

Withdrawing from their kiss, John shifted his attention to Harold's neck, unerringly finding the spot from before.

Harold arched as gentle suction sent pleasure through him.

John's hand covered his cock.

“Don't make me come, not yet.” 

“I won't,” John said, pressing a kiss to the center of Harold's chest before shifting his mouth to a nipple.

Harold slid his hands into John's hair. “Mine aren't so sensitive.”

“That's too bad.”

“Hmmm.”

“So where will I find sensitive places?”

“You've found one.”

“This?” John gave Harold's cock a slow stroke. “Doesn't count. It was right out in the open.”

Harold smiled.

John was smiling back, and Harold was content to just look at him, to slide his fingers over John's cheek and then, on impulse, back up to trace the curve of John's ear. From there, he cupped the back of John's neck and drew him down into another kiss.

John resumed moving his hand as they kissed. There was nothing shy or delicate about his touch. It was firm, assured, but not rough. It felt better than anything Harold had experienced in a long time.

Far too soon, Harold was grabbing John's wrist and stilling his hand. “Not yet.”

“No,” John agreed. “Not yet.”

Harold shifted, and John moved with him, rolling on to his back, ending with Harold on top of him. 

Never one to let an opportunity slip past, Harold recaptured John's earlobe and sucked gently but firmly.

John groaned.

Harold did it again.

John caressed his back.

Releasing John's ear, Harold moved his lips along the side of John's neck, nipping at his collarbone before shifting lower and kissing his way to a nipple.

“That's nice,” John said.

“So enjoyable, but not overwhelmingly so.”

“Pretty much.”

Harold kissed the other nipple anyway, just to be thorough, before resuming his downward journey.

And then there it was, John's cock. It wasn't so different from Harold's own, straight where Harold had a slight curve, but circumcised, just as Harold was. Even though he'd begun to think he and John might end up here, he'd tried not to think too much about it, afraid he'd somehow mess it up, rush things because he couldn't control his lust. Now he had John's bare cock in front of him and Harold couldn't decide what he wanted to do first.

Sliding a hand beneath it, he pressed his lips to John's frenulum.

“Harold,” John gasped.

Harold did it again, licking a little this time. Then he covered the whole head with his lips and sucked.

John's fingers slid through his hair before his hand settled on the back of Harold's head.

Harold barely noticed. He was too busy taking in the weight of John's cock on his tongue, the salty taste of him. He breathed deep, trying to capture John's scent. It wasn't enough. He needed to go lower, to press his nose to John's scrotum and breathe him in.

But that would have to wait. He had a cock to suck. Wrapping his hand around the base of John's shaft, he slid his lips lower, taking as much of John as he could before reversing direction. He moved slowly, sucking steadily the entire time. John groaned when he reached the head.

Harold went down again, still slow and deliberate, not enough to make John climax, just enough to make him feel good. In that moment, making John feel good was the only thing Harold wanted.

He kept the rhythm slow and John let him, the hand on his head moving with him, not guiding or pushing.

At one point, Harold looked up, wanting to see John's face.

John was staring at him, lips slightly parted, eyes wide, stunned pleasure and unabashed affection written across his features. 

Harold went still, his eyes meeting John's for a long moment.

“Come here,” John said, and Harold moved up, into his arms. John pulled him close and Harold pressed his face to the curve of John's neck.

John caressed him, hands moving sure and gentle over Harold's back, one slipping down to cup his ass.

Harold felt shaky, unsure of what he wanted, except more of this, more of John. He kissed the skin beneath his lips before sucking lightly. John's hips bucked and Harold sucked harder, suddenly wanting to leave a mark, wanting there to be proof of what they'd shared.

John didn't stop him. He just continued those easy, tantalizing caresses.

With a final brush of his lips to reddened skin, Harold drew back.

John rolled them so Harold was on his back, John leaning over him. “I'd suck you , but I want to see your face.”

“I want that, too, to see you,” Harold answered, lifting his lips to John's.

When John moved over him, Harold parted his legs, making room for John to settle atop him, his weight holding Harold down, his cock temptingly close to Harold's.

Reaching between them, John took both of their cocks in hand. 

Harold gasped at the feel of John's cock pressed to the underside of his own. John stroked them together while Harold watched. It felt good, but Harold was sure there was a way to make it feel better. “Wait,” he said, twisting toward his bedside table. Opening the drawer, he reached inside and pulled out a small bottle, holding it out to John, who immediately snapped it open.

Slick fingers wrapped around his cock, causing Harold to lift his hips in a helpless quest for more. He received it when John's cock once again pressed against his, John's hand enclosing them both.

With a shift of his hips, John moved his cock along Harold's, caressing Harold's shaft with his own.

Just the thought of it, of John's cock sliding along his, had Harold staring in wonder. He watched as John moved slowly against him.

“Harold.”

Lifting his gaze from their cocks to John's face, Harold found himself unable to look away. John was looking at him like Harold was something precious, like Harold might disappear if John closed his eyes.

Harold raised his hand to John's cheek, stroking his thumb over John's cheekbone, eyes on John's as John moved over him, caressed him.

When John leaned down to kiss him, Harold moved to meet him.

When, several kisses later, John pulled away, Harold gazed up at him, certain every feeling he'd ever had for John was showing in his expression, but unable to hold back in the face of John's own openness.

He watched John as they moved together, both cocks slick now.

The only time he looked away was when he rubbed his fingers of the heads of both their cocks, startling a gasp from John, before John moved his own hand lower on their joined shafts, making room for Harold to wrap his own around them both.

After that there was no more holding back.

They moved together, hands and cocks, and Harold raised his free hand once again to John's face, needing that additional connection as the pleasure built between them.

John moaned and Harold shuddered, loving that he had done that, had made John moan. He stroked John's lips with his thumb.

But it was the feel of John's cock against his own that was pushing him closer. He'd never expected a man's firmness to be as arousing as a woman's softness, but it was. Maybe cocks would always have pleased him this much, if he'd let them, or maybe it was just John's. It didn't matter, all that mattered was the feel of John'd hardness sliding along his own.

It was John who came first, gasping Harold's name as his hips stilled and his cock pulsed against Harold's, warm fluid landing on Harold's cock and abdomen.

Harold couldn't tear his eyes from John's face, mesmerized by the sight of John's pleasure. 

“John,” he whispered in the aftermath, drawing John down for a kiss.

They were kissing when John gently pushed Harold's hand away and began to stroke him. John's come was mixed with the lube, Harold knew, and the thought made him moan.

John watched him as he brought Harold closer with each sure stroke of his hand. Harold looked back, unwilling to hide from John, or maybe unable to.

Gasping and shuddering, he came for John.

John continued stroking him, touch growing slower and lighter as Harold's orgasm subsided. Removing his hand, John pressed a soft kiss to Harold's forehead. 

Harold pulled him close, sliding his dry hand over John's broad back, because he didn't want to lose this, didn't want to stop touching John. 

They held each other for a long time, until the inevitable dread began to chase the contentment away. “John,” Harold said quietly, causing John to shift so he could see Harold's face. “For me, with you, I'd rather lose this, lose you, than never have had you in my life at all.”

It probably wasn't a fair thing to say, given that John was likely the one who would have to endure the loss, not Harold, although he wondered how long John would survive with Decima hunting him. Even John's resourcefulness had limits.

John didn't say a word. He just lay down where he could see Harold's face and raised a hand to cup Harold's cheek, stroked a thumb across his cheekbone.

Breath caught, Harold kept still.

“I will do whatever I have to to save you,” John said, voice low and intimate, as though he was vowing eternal love rather than acts of violence.

“I know.”

Then John kissed him, as softly as Harold had ever been kissed, and Harold's heart broke.

 

In the morning, John made him scrambled eggs, which Harold dutifully ate.

Then they went to the bridge and Harold paid the price for Grace's freedom. He placed himself in Decima's hands.


End file.
